


Chicken Shirt

by incapricious



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Episode Tag, M/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-02
Updated: 2011-10-02
Packaged: 2017-10-24 06:15:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/260001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incapricious/pseuds/incapricious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A kitchen was an odd place for hanging a prince's feast-day shirt.  But Merlin had a good reason for it.  [<b>SPOILERS FOR 4x01 WITHIN</b>]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chicken Shirt

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'ed. Mostly gen. Reaction/tag to 4x01, hence **major episode spoilers**. Also I may have made the last scene a tiny bit longer than it was in the episode.

It wasn't something he had planned. Rather, it began as a happy byproduct of his laziness.

Because here was the thing: ironing was even less fun than mucking out the stables, which seemed unlikely, but made sense once you thought about it. After all, the stables were outside in the sunshine, and horse poo didn't tend to leave giant, embarrassing burns on your hand when you got distracted by a really weird beetle that was climbing the wall and forgot what you were doing.

There was probably a spell for instantly removing all the wrinkles from an item of clothing, but if there was it wasn't in the book, and the things Merlin had tried had had less than optimal results, the least traumatic of which involved Arthur's second-favorite tunic bursting into bright purple flame.

But then one day Merlin had left Arthur's shirt, already worn, hanging by the bathtub. A few hours after Arthur had finished with his scalding hot soak, Merlin noticed that the shirt, while not perfectly smooth, was considerably less rumpled than when it had come off Arthur's back.

Gwen laughed when he told her of his discovery.

"Steam gets rid of wrinkles?" she said, shaking her head. "Who would have thought? Next you're going to tell me that soap can be used for cleaning."

The bath hadn't been hot enough -- what he really needed was boiling water. And he knew just where to find it.

The head cook had shouted at him when he'd hung the shirt over a boiling pot of soup, but once she found out it was Arthur's, she nodded grudgingly and told him anything of the prince's was welcome in her kitchen.

"Except his manservant," she said when Merlin reached for a loaf of bread. He just barely evaded her snapping towel, and managed to snag an apple on the way out.

He spent the next few hours taking a leisurely walk through the lower town, grinning every once in a while at how fantastically clever he was.

He returned to the kitchen to find a still-wrinkled shirt that smelled of roasted chicken.

"Um. What happened to the soup?"

"Lunch," said one of the cook's assistants. "Chicken for dinner," she added, quite unnecessarily, given the row of crispy-skinned birds that sat beneath Arthur's shirt where the pot of broth had been.

Merlin took the long way back to Arthur's chambers.

"Really, Merlin. This is appalling. It's not even remotely-- oh." Arthur held the shirt up to his face and inhaled. "Did you use a new soap or something? It... it smells fantastic."

"Oh. Yeah! I did. It's, um, it's new. It's very... natural. And unique."

"Hmm." Arthur regarded him skeptically and for a moment Merlin was sure he was going to have to spend the next thirty minutes ironing frantically -- he could already feel the blisters forming on his fingers. But then Arthur said, "I approve," and slipped the shirt over his head.

That night (at a feast in honor of a visiting Lord) Arthur had actually smiled at Merlin and afterward, in his chambers, he had pulled Merlin into a hug and patted him on the back before lurching awkwardly away, his face a picture of confusion.

"Good work tonight. Pouring the wine and... you know. The things you do," Arthur said, backing away until he bumped into one of his bedposts.

The power of a chicken-scented shirt was truly staggering.

Every time there was a feast from then on, Merlin made sure to have the shirt Arthur would wear hanging in the kitchen by sunrise. The cook shouted at him every time, as if she hadn't given him permission the previous month to hang a shirt over an oven full of roasting poultry. Perhaps shouting was part of her job description. Or perhaps she just enjoyed shouting.

The third time Arthur wore a chicken shirt, he touched Merlin's cheek, briefly and softly, as Merlin was helping him get ready for bed.

"Sire?" Merlin asked. He could feel his breath frozen in his chest.

"You're not so bad, you know," Arthur answered.

::-::-::

Samhain would be no exception to the rule of the chicken shirt, even though it was a much more significant feast than the passing through of some random nobleman.

Only for some unfathomable reason, Arthur decided to dress himself before Merlin returned.

Everything went downhill from there.

::-::-::

Merlin wanted more than anything to stop Arthur's shivering. If he had his magic -- if it hadn't been stolen from him -- he would have placed his hands on Arthur's chest and whispered the words he needed. What would it matter if he revealed his secret now? He was going to die here anyway.

"You don't know how many times I've saved your life," he said. He knew what came next: Arthur would ask what he meant, and then Merlin would tell him. Finally.

"If I ever become King, I'm going to have you made Court Jester," Arthur said instead, and Merlin had to laugh, because of course Arthur wouldn't follow the script. But it didn't actually matter, really, whether Arthur knew or not. What mattered was that Arthur _did_ become king.

An otherworldly scream ripped through the air. It wouldn't be long now.

There were so many things that Merlin wanted to say. He opened his mouth uselessly, knowing that none of them would come out. Arthur stared at him, hard, and lunged forward, pressing a brief searing kiss to Merlin's lips.

"I've been wanting to do that for a while," Arthur said, leaning his head against the wall.

Merlin touched his fingertips to his tingling mouth. "Why?"

Arthur's grin was tinged with fear. The shrieking was growing louder. "Who else would go to the trouble of making my clothes smell like my favorite food?" He shrugged. "You're always there for me. Even for the little things."

"Arthur, I--"

"Yeah, I know. Me too."

Merlin reached over and touched Arthur's hand.

"It's always darkest before the dawn," Arthur said, fingers wrapping around Merlin's own.

The touch of the Dorocha was colder than ice, but Merlin threw himself into it willingly.

::-::-::


End file.
